


A Fire For Artistic Effect

by billspilledquill



Category: French Revolution RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/F, M/M, People Uncapable Of Normal Communication
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-17
Updated: 2018-05-17
Packaged: 2019-05-08 01:53:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14683965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/billspilledquill/pseuds/billspilledquill
Summary: Saint-Just seems to really like post-its. Maybe that’s why he keeps sticking them on Robespierre during lunch break. It gets gradually less funny when he receives one of them in his face.





	A Fire For Artistic Effect

 

>   _Barère: That is his secret, like so many others, and the secrets of his awesome police department downstairs, which has just sent out a night patrol. I don’t know for certain, but I almost believe that those young men work for nothing, or rather — for a single glance from him..._
> 
> _Vilate: That is what I call popularity!_
> 
> _Barère: I call it practicing seduction rather. He is so plain, and yet the atmosphere around him is loaded with eroticism. His very presence, not even at close quarters — goes to the boys’ heads, takes their breath away. They move as he beckons; his gestures are calculated to that purpose. In impact they do not realize themselves. Most of them would gladly die for him, or because of him._
> 
> _— Stanislawa Przybyszewska, Thermidor._

 

Maximilien enjoys post-its and their many benefits, but sometimes it still gets a little but too much when some yellow square paper covers your face whole and deprives you of the rest you so much need after a day’s work.

As always, he hears Camille’s groan beside him.

“Seriously, what is he up to?” Camille says. “He just comes over and bombard you with some note-sticks, I mean, sure, as much as I hate him and would like to admit that he is an abomination of the human race, but this—“ he points at the post-it, “that’s just plain weird.”

Maximilien gestures vaguely, trying to get the paper out of his face. Camille laughs a little and helps him to it.

“If he wants to see you being cute and stuff,” he says after a deliberate pause, “he’s missing out.”

Maximilien huffs, pokes Camille’s face, and returns to his business. Camille sticks the post-it under Max’s desk, already covered in some white and blue and red square papers, lining up as a French flag.

“You are not wasting the papers, I can tell that,” Camille says, wondering. “Tell me how to do this? This looks nice for a house decoration.”

“Oh, Lucile will love it. Remember the last time when you tried to paint your son’s room green? She was _thrilled_.” And Camille chuckles, fiddles with his pen a little bit, and here is the end of the post-it incident. For the week, at least.

 

* * *

 

The next time is on his shoulder. A plain, sticky note. On his right shoulder, ready to be noticed and criticized, and in Camille’s case, laughed at.

“He’s gone?” Camille asks, looking suspiciously around.

“Yeah,” he says, lifting the post-it, feeling the glue ruining his clothes. He would have to wash this coat again, then.

“He’s gone just like that!” He said. Maximilien wonders if Camille just want Antoine to hear it so that it would humiliate him further. “I don’t know what you see in him Maxime, but you know that he is being silly this time around. I _mean_ , post-it? At least I would have the decency to use flowers or some shit that actually made sense for these kind of games.”

“You liked him when you guys first met.”

“I was young,” he says, knowing very well that it has only been two years when that occurred, “still, I said that ‘he seems nice’. Seems is a totally accurate way to depict his pretty-mad boy behavior right now.”

“You said he was hot and would take him home and—“

“What do you think all of this means, Maxime?” Camille says quickly, his stutter gone for a second. He is looking at the post-it with great interest. Maximilien tries very hard not to laugh.

“I don’t know,” he says. And the incidents double for the next week.

 

* * *

 

Antoine likes post-its, probably, he thinks. Probably too much for everyone to bear the burden that passions bring. He gets one on his hand, on his arm, on his hair. And Maximilien didn’t even have time to mutter _hell is real_ when he receives one on his lips.

Camille isn’t here today, and thanks god he isn’t. He would have doubled down, laughing and curling into himself. And Maximilien doesn’t know if he will follow him or will just let out a long, long sigh of despair.

Maximilien doesn’t have time to take the post-it away when Antoine disappears again, leaving him alone with a bunch of bright and nice papers on his body.

He throws half of them away, for his table doesn’t have the space for them anymore. The people in his office didn’t lift up their eyes, and the routine starts all over again.

Well until he detaches the one from his mouth and notices that it is scribbled, in that way Antoine always like to do when he is in a hurry, with letters inclining on the right, and the r’s written like a capital letter— he clutches the paper and puts it in his bag, a smile on his lips.

It really is a great thing that Camille hasn’t come today.

 

* * *

 

He was just finishing a meeting with Pétion when Élénore walks in, a handful of documents in her hands.

When she closed the door Maximilien can already feel his nerves jumping in warning, “It is all for tomorrow?”

She nods in sympathy, “Sorry, monsieur. What can I do to help?”

He folds his hands, “Just don’t call me monsieur, it is very odd for my ears,” he says, watching her tilting her head, her gentle eyes, “that will be all, Élénore. Thank you.”

And then he stands up, because he needs to manage a print for his project, because he is a respectful person, but Élénore just stares for a few seconds, not moving.

“Is there anything wrong?” He asks. She flinches a little, and laughs.

“No, no, sir. I was just—“

“Yes?”

“It’s—“ she points at his pants, “there’s something on your cloth, sir. It has things written on it.”

And that was the moment where he realizes that he really, really needs to talk with Antoine about this. Possibly right now, because he just entered his office, looking a little bit frightened after he had seen that they are all staring at him.

Élénore slips away. He knows she’s smart. Maximilien would like to do the same, sometimes.

“Antoine.” He calls out when he was going to disappear again. “Antoine? What was that about?”

Antoine stills, looking back with his big brown eyes and steps back in without any sound escaping from him.

“You kept sticking post-its on me,” he sighs. “Camille says you have some kind of color fetish.”

“That’s just false,” Antoine says promptly, finally reacting. “I don’t even like the color yellow. The others ran out, I had no other choices.”

“You are not saying what needs to be explained, my friend,” he says, his pen tapping on the table. Tick, tack. Tic. He gestures the furniture. “Why are you quoting Goethe in your post-its?”

Antoine shrugs, “I had to put something eventually.”

“You could have put Rousseau,” he mumbles, and Antoine stares, not understanding.

“What did you say?”

He rubs his temples, “Nothing.”

Antoine raises his voice a bit, the tip of his ears pink. “Can I go?”

Tic, tac. Tic.

Maximilien nods once, and Antoine doesn’t need to be told twice. Once he closes the door, Élénore came back with the same stack of paper, looking curiously at the fading figure.

“Is he okay?” She asks, and Maximilien wonders for a moment if he needs to call his friend back because he might as well throw a mountain of post-its in his office. Might as well prevent that now.

 

* * *

 

Of course it happens.

**Camille 4:45 PM**

_He wants your attention_

**Me 4:46 PM**

What?

**Camille 4:46 PM**

_Idk st-just has this weird way to express feelings adding with his narcissistic thought he prob never noticed that ppl have no idea what hes doin_

**Me 4:47 PM**

_How would you know?_

**Camille 4:47 PM**

_WELL ur house hasnt been set on fire bc someone insulted ur music talent_

_Just kidding he just set my clothes on fire dont worry lucile is fine_

**Camille 4:47 PM**

_Anyway just! write some shit in return?? I dont get this man but i sure as hell get what it is like getting a crush on someone that is as oblivious as you_

**Me 4:49 PM**

_Wait, what?_

**Camille 5:01 PM**

_What?_

 

* * *

 

He picks up a post-it and places it on Antoine’s fingertips. He notices.

_How are you?_

 

* * *

 

He gets one after lunch break. He doesn’t notice it at first.

_Doing plans. Hope it will be finished soon._

 

* * *

 

After that, they exchanged many more messages the medieval way. Fortunately no one gets hurt, unfortunately, they did not live happily ever after. Maximilien doesn’t understand most of it. Some of them are just quotes from german philosophers, and the other half of them are theological debates on the existence of aliens.

And sometimes, Maximilien looks at the wall of post-its he doesn’t throw away and sighs softly, almost fondly.

(Children.)

He looks at the new one delivered on his left shoulder, again. _Can you come here? I’m in my office._

Maximilien couldn’t resist a smile for that. He kept his smile until he came in Antoine’s office, his face bright and clear. He barely had time to register what was wrong that Antoine has put a post-it on his right cheek, with a doodle of a star on it.

“Something special about my cheek?” He asks, not really surprised at this seeming display of madness.

Antoine says, almost bordering on the tone of confession, “Everything is special about you, Maxime.”

 

* * *

 

**Camille 6:21 PM**

_Oops i think he really means something when he is wrapping u in gift papers max_

_He just slap one on my head with a doodle of a small guillotine on it i think it does bear some meaning dont u think hahaha_

_*The laugh is sarcastic*_

 

* * *

 

Camille comes to work the next day with a cup of coffee that morning. Which is usual, but not for the stack of post-its with small, printed words on it.

“Gonna slam that bastard,” he says. And Maximilien peeks at one of them: _One sees in his bearing and his attitude that he considers his head the cornerstone of the world. Well, this man is the devil himself and let me tell you why:—––_

Maximilien moves his eyes away. He doesn’t want to stay the night here.

 

* * *

 

“I don’t think I understand,” he says as he has said so many times in his mind, “this is not logical.”

Camille is looking at him silently, “If we continue this we are all going bankrupt from post-its supplies, Maxime.”

“Don’t feed your baby post-it,” he says, not exactly joking anymore by the number of times their subject of the day is about a little square paper. “It is not healthy.”

“This is making me sick,” Camilłe makes a sound of disgust, “can he just act like a normal human being and tell us what is in his mind so that we can all sleep in peace without worrying about paper planes hitting our faces?”

“Isn’t he just marking his favorite place?” They looked up. It’s Élénore. She is crossing her arms at his office door. “I brought coffee.”

Camille stares at her with widened eyes. “Care to elaborate?”

She sits, respectfully still. “Well,” she steals a glance at Maximilien, who is listening with interest, “he seems to be pretty... _enamored_ by you, monsieur Robespierre, if I may use the word.”

“No need for formalities.”

She nods, her body still rigid and straight like a statue, “Right, Maximilien. He likes you.”

“Okay,” he says. “What that has to do with post-its?”

“It surely has everything to do with it,” she says. “There are things he surely can’t say in this kind of situation,” she adds vaguely, clearly not wanting to go further, “do it subtler. You are good at this.”

“Sorry if this troubles you,” he says.

She waves her hand deliberately, “I also need this post-it phenomenon to stop. It is I who cleans the room, so.” She shrugs and goes on stacking some paper mindlessly.

Camille looks at her in awe, and whispers, his stutters a little worse than usual, “She’s great. Who is she?”

Maximilien just laughs, “My sister’s girlfriend.”

 

* * *

 

So the next day, he sticks a post-it on Antoine’s arm, _What are you planning this Sunday? PS: Remind me: why did you do this again?_

Antoine’s reply came from a tap on the shoulder. _Nothing particular. You? PS: What am I doing?_

“Doing this,” he says, grabbing Antoine by the hand before he can fly away like birds do. “Doing this,” he repeats, gesturing the paper beside his face, “doing this,” he points at his desk full of unused post-its, and he laughs, amused by his own ignorance. “But I think I know why.”

“What am I doing, then?” Antoine asks, and Maximilien can feel his hand tighten around his.

“I don’t know,” he says, “I will tell you near my street Sunday morning when we walk along the river.”

 

* * *

 

Camille snorts, and whispers loud enough for Antoine murdering glance to bestow on him, “Fucking dorks.”

 

* * *

 

**Charlotte 7:27 PM**

_Hey why is elenore texting me with 120 exclamation points and telling me that you are in love._

_[screenshot.jpg]_

_Give me all the details._

 

**Author's Note:**

> @astupidusername420 gonna carry this ship like it’s my soul ok here u go for the minor elenore/charlotte content 
> 
> But srsly in a scale of 1 to 10 how stupid they are and how stupid am i to not work and instead choose to write this silly fic plz tell me in the comments


End file.
